


Love Drunk

by shini02



Category: Futurama
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shini02/pseuds/shini02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't love, and it never will be, but it's good enough for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Drunk

“I dunno what I did wrong,” is the mantra Fry has chosen for the night, and it's beginning to wear Bender's patience thin. He rolls his optics as Fry slouches back on the sofa beside him, teetering this way and that before finding his center of gravity. He still isn't quite upright, but it's close enough, and so long as he isn't whining or moving anymore, Bender really can't bring himself to care.   
  
He shrugs, figures maybe it's time to say something. Humans respond to verbal attention as well as physical, and even if smacking the redhead upside the head sounds horribly wonderful right now, he knows it's best to at least try and talk to him first. If that doesn't work, doesn't get him to stop repeating like a broken old world record, then he promises himself at least one good sucker punch to Fry's face.   
  
“Maybe ya didn't do anything wrong,” he says, watching curiously as Fry reaches for a new bottle of beer. His depth perception must be off, because he keeps missing, keeps groping the air just inches beside the neck of the amber glass. Before he starts whining again, Bender takes it upon himself, one of his rare and menial acts of chivalry, to nudge the bottle into Fry's hand using his foot.   
  
“I didn't?” Fry inquires, grabbing the bottle, then holding it out to the robot, whom serves as a bottle opener with little to no complaint.   
  
The bending unit shrugs again, this time only with one shoulder. “Maybe,” he says, and his optics narrow and his mouth-plate takes on the guise of a grin. “But maybe ya didn't do anything right, either.”  
  
Fry's groan and obvious sense of failure causes the robot to snicker, before he pours a decent amount of alcohol down his throat. He finishes off the bottle, then tosses it to the floor to collect with the other emptied bottles there, then dares to turn his attention back to Fry. The misplaced human's head is hung low and caught in his hands, and he's muttering what Bender can only assume is that same wretched sentence he's been hearing all night and the day before. So what if it had been Leela's birthday and Fry had done himself in by getting the wrong gift or saying the wrong thing or whatever it was that set the mutant off. So what? It was nothing some booze couldn't fix, as well as some much needed quality time with his best friend.  
  
Or, that was what Bender originally thought, anyway. It had worked every other time, but he supposes Fry's just that special, that he can't even commit to being a creature of habit – especially when getting his heart broken habitually is beginning to take its toll on him.   
  
With another roll of his optics, he nudges the human beside him. “Oh, come on. I was playin' with ya,” he mumbles, and it's a half-truth. He doesn't know exactly what happened, couldn't bring himself to care then and can't bring himself to care now, but whenever this happens, it's as much her fault as it is Fry's. Usually. Sometimes it's all him, and sometimes it's all her – but that doesn't matter now and he really doesn't want to think about it anymore. Spending too much time on whatever's going on between those two could wear his processors out, he's sure.   
  
Fry gives a grunt, and it's better than a whine, so Bender doesn't complain. Fry brings the bottle to his mouth, takes a breath, closes his eyes and proceeds to take it all down, gasping for air once he's done and shaking his head to clear away the buzz. Bender's surprised he can even feel that, at this point.   
  
“Not that I care or nothin',” Bender starts, and he knows he'll probably regret this, “but why bother when it's apparent that this is all yer gonna get outta the deal?”  
  
Fry shrugs and stares ahead, eyes half-lidded. “I 'unno.”  
  
“Don't gimme that,” Bender snaps, optics narrowing into a glare as he points accusingly at Fry now. “Humans are stupid, but yer not that stupid. There's always a reason with you's, even if it's a stupid one.”  
  
“I love her?” Fry more asks than states, turning to look at the robot beside him.   
  
And Bender groans and feels like pulling out Fry's hair. “Like I said, there's a reason, even if it's a stupid one.”  
  
Fry shrugs again. “You're right,” he slurs, “s'pretty stupid. S'like... like I'm running in place, y'know? I do everything I can for her, and s'never enough. S'never right.”  
  
“So,” Bender says, one optic slanting, giving off the impression of a quirked eyebrow, “quit while yer ahead. Not that you got much father to go before ya hit rock bottom, but hey.”  
  
“Why'd you care?” Fry asks, leaning over a little, eyes narrowing suspiciously on Bender.   
  
“I don't,” Bender says simply. “I'm just tired of your bitchin', and don't wanna share anymore of my booze.”  
  
Fry stares at him with a stare blanker than usual, then before Bender can anticipate the human's actions, Fry's throwing himself at him, arms wrapping tight around his neck.   
  
“The hell?! Get offa me – ”  
  
“I love you, man,” Fry groans into the crook of Bender's neck, and his flesh is warm against his cool, metallic exostructure.   
  
“Say what?”   
  
“I said,” Fry starts, taking a deep breath, trying his damnedest to make sure the words don't slur too much, “I love you, man.”  
  
Bender stares off ahead of him, then slowly looks down to the back of the human currently clinging to him. Were he human, or programmed differently, maybe he would have wrapped his arms around that fragile human body, clutched that damned white tee in his thick fingers and tried to comfort his friend. But he's not human and he's not programmed differently, so he puts his hands to Fry's sides, digs his blunt fingers into his ribcage and shoves him off, glowering.   
  
“Come off it,” he sneers.   
  
Fry, gaining his balance again, and a little easier, now that he has a goal in mind, scowls right back. Or, at least, he tries to. It's not much of a scowl, but it's the thought that counts, Bender supposes.   
  
“I do,” Fry assures, “you're... you're always keeping me in line, always there for me, no matter how bad I screw up – hell, sometimes, we even screw up together, and that's pretty awesome.”  
  
“Sleep it off, meatbag,” Bender drawls with a roll of his optics, not impressed or particularly touched by Fry's sentiments. Even if Fry weren't drunk and completely coherent, he doubts he'd feel anything.  
  
“B-But, Bender,” Fry groans, getting up on his knees and leaning forward, both hands on one of Bender's thighs. “Why's it whenever I spill my heart to someone, I get the cold shoulder?”  
  
“Well, it could be your horrible sense of timing,” Bender muses, shaking those warm hands off his leg. “And in this case, deal with it; my shoulder's always cold.”  
  
Fry snickers, snorting a little, having enough sense to at least catch the joke. “That's funny,” he murmurs, and puts his hands right back where they had been seconds prior, and Bender doesn't like the way he's suddenly leaning in, because he's given enough femmes that look to know what it means, and he's not sure this is a road he wants to go down. Humans are weak and disgusting, and the thought of interfacing with one – especially Fry – makes his internals churn.   
  
But the warmth of that body is hard to resist, and a small part of his processor rationalizes that, hey, Fry could do with a good lay.   
  
Maybe then he'd shut up for a little while.   
  
So, perhaps he'll ride this out, see where it goes. There's a good chance, after all, that Fry will pass out at any given moment, after all.   
  
But until then, the human's leaning in, closer, closer, and his hands are roaming upward, and he's murmuring the stupidest things, like, “then let's warm you up.”   
  
Except it can't really be as stupid as Bender would like to believe, because his fluids are running just a little hotter through his system, and his optics are dimming as Fry presses his lips to the corner of his mouth.   
  
It takes the tenth of a second for Bender to snap back to his senses and to shove Fry off. “Are you off your rocker?” he snaps.   
  
“I 'unno,” Fry shrugs, now kneeling between the robot's legs, and Bender has to wonder when in the hell he laid down.   
  
“This can't work, moron,” Bender goes on, and then he motions between the two bodies and swears his optics didn't fixate on that bulge in Fry's pants longer than they had to. “You're a human and I'm a robot and it just ain't gonna work!”   
  
But Fry's frighteningly clever when he wants to be, and being drunk only makes him all the more devilish and playful. “What if I can figure it out?”  
  
Bender snorts, and lays back, rolling his optics. “If you can figure it out, I'll work you over so hard you won't be able to walk a straight line for days.”  
  
“Okie dokie,” Fry snickers, and neither really takes that promise seriously – until Fry's opening up Bender's chest cavity, and dipping his hand inside. He feels the flooring, the walls, and gives a triumphant “woo!” when he finds a panel toward the back. Before Bender can react, Fry opens that up, too, and trails his fingers over the circuitry there. The wires are warm, and he swears they're getting warmer the more he fondles them, and Bender's optics have dimmed down to near blackness at this point.   
  
“This is working, right?” he asks, because maybe this isn't pleasurable for the robot, and maybe he's killing him slowly – but then Bender let's out a groan that sends chills all the way down to the tips of Fry's toes. Assuming what he's doing is right, and taking pride in that, he continues tracing wires, prodding at metal seams.  
  
Okay, so Fry doesn't have an inlet or an outlet and maybe he can't please him the way a femme could, but this is just as good, or better, and Bender hates himself a little for giving himself up so easily. He'll convince himself later that pleasure is pleasure, and it doesn't matter where or who you get it from, so long as you get it.   
  
And he's getting, and he's getting it good. He doesn't know how Fry knows how to do this, or even if he knows he's doing it, but those fingers are working magic on his internals, and there's a charge building up in his core. His thoughts are becoming jumbled and his vision is giving way to static, and he can't believe he's this close already, that Fry of all people is sending him over the edge faster than ever before.   
  
When it happens, his optics dim completely and his body stiffens, and it's like one big static shock is sent through him, and Fry pulls his hand out, yelping in surprise, having not expected that at all. Rubbing his tingling hand, Fry watches the robot, waits for him to come back online and furrows his brow once Bender's gaze is focused on him again.   
  
“That was a good thing, right?”  
  
“Good?” Bender scoffs, and almost says it was one of the best he'd ever had, but decides not to, decides to play up on Fry's sense of incompetence. He shrugs, looking off to the side. “It was a'ight.”  
  
“Oh,” Fry murmurs, and whatever pride he'd built up is slowly but surely dwindling away. But before his ego completely deflates, Bender shoves him to the other end of the couch, gets on his knees and glares at him as he closes his panels up.   
  
“Get naked,” he demands, and Fry quirks an eyebrow.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Don't make me repeat myself,” Bender warns, because this mood won't last long, and if Fry wants any kind of release, he'll strip himself without hesitance and get into his best Fuck Me position.   
  
It's not as fast as Bender would have liked, but Fry does undress himself. It's not as sexy as he would have liked, either, but he'll take Fry on his back with his legs spread over having to position him himself. The robot mutters to himself as he brings a finger to Fry's mouth, shoving it inside.   
  
“Suck,” he demands, and hates the small surge of pleasure that courses through him at the feel of that tongue on his finger. It only intensifies when there's a sudden pressure, a pulling as the digit is coated with Fry's saliva.   
  
Pulling the finger out, he wastes no time in bringing it down to Fry's ass.   
  
“Can't believe I'm doin' this,” he mutters to himself, shoving the slicked digit inside without warning or much preparation. Fry lets out a sound that he can't really identify as painful or pleasurable, but soon enough he's bucking and that's a good thing.   
  
He substitutes his free hand for nothing short of a mechanical tentacle, which he casually wraps around Fry's throbbing erection. He doesn't pump it, simply squeezes, and sends small electrical shockwaves down into the human appendage. The result, he hates to admit, is very stimulating.  
  
Fry looks nothing short of a two-bit whore right now; mouth agape with spittle leaking from one corner, eyes squeezed shut tight and hands groping at the arm of the couch behind his head. He's bucking and moaning and begging for more, and Bender things if he gives him more he'll either break him or electrocute him.   
  
“B-Bender!” Fry gasps, arching up off the sofa higher than before, and suddenly Bender's fixated on the dribble of white escaping the slit of the dick he's holding. It's warm against his metal coils, and he's aroused and disgusted all at once. Because the things the human body can do are disgusting, but it's not so bad when he's the one in control and making them happen.  
  
Fry's bucking his hips wildly now, and Bender knows he's close. So he wraps those coils around that dick tighter, amplifies the shockwave just once, and it's all Fry needs. He shouts as he comes, spilling himself hot and hard against the warmed metal wrapped around him, then falls slack against the sofa, panting.   
  
Nothing is said as Bender pulls away and shamelessly wipes Fry's mess off on his own shirt, or as Fry pulls his boxers and jeans back on. They resume their prior positions on the sofa, and Bender reaches for another bottle of beer.   
  
“Don't thank me,” he says after a few more seconds of agonizing silence.   
  
“But – ”  
  
“Cork it.”  
  
“Okay,” Fry mumbles, and leans back against the couch, and can't help but steal glances at the robot every now and then. There's something stirring inside of him at the moment, but he knows it isn't love. No, even in his drunken stupor, he doubts he could ever love a robot, especially Bender. But being in lust is close enough, and there's a small comfort in knowing it might just be returned.  
  
So, he decides to keep on pursuing Leela, even if he'd concluded earlier that it would do him no good. But he's hopelessly in love with her, and he'll try to win her over until the day he dies. And should things never pan out, well, something tells him that Bender will always be a willing placebo, and he's surprisingly okay with that. 


End file.
